


The Apartment

by Daftinthehead (intravenusann)



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/Daftinthehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you own the city, you can take your pick of places to stay and then do whatever the fuck you want with them. 2,000 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Apartment

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this piece](http://sannam.tumblr.com/post/9300096618/a-collaboration-piece-with-the-lovely-dreadelion) by Sannam and Dreadelion. Because Luna said, “I’m listening.” And Christa said a lot more than that. I have never dropped that many names or needed this much encouragement for a fic.

The apartment is Slick’s, but it’s not Slick’s apartment. It’s simple, dark; a loft with a small balcony and few windows. There’s a coffee maker, but nothing in the fridge. Really. Less than either of them has at home, which isn’t a lot. It’s not really been set up for anyone to stay in for long.

Sleuth drinks what Slick offers him and says, “It’s good, but I’ve had better.” Even if it’s a hundred-year-old cognac that costs more than he’ll ever see in his entire life.

“It’s good, but I’ve had better.”

“Sure you have,” Slick answers, then segues somewhere else.

“Hey, do you know if there’s a word for, ah, what would it be…” He taps his fingers against the black stone of the tabletop — glass would just be asking for trouble.

“What?” Sleuth asks, because he’s good with words and he knows it. Likes big, obscure ones that usually come out with questions like that.

“The place you keep a mistress in, or, maybe the kind you can bring whores back to?”

Slick likes to point shit like that out every once in a while, to watch the indignation flush Sleuth’s face. The punch is always worth it. Of course, a fist in the face is just foreplay between them, really. Some petty insult. A strike. It’s an opening, really.

Usually, he hits him in the jaw or the nose with a right hook that could use better follow through. Today, it’s right in the mouth. Slick’s sharp teeth cut into his lips, the insides of his cheeks. The taste of blood excites him, even when it’s his own. It escalates immediately. Slick makes Sleuth’s nose bleed and then, while he’s distracted with that, jumps him.

The place is carpeted, so they don’t hit the ground too hard. Black carpeting. It hides the evidence of Sleuth shoving Slick’s face against it to the naked eye, even if it’s hard to clean. Not that he’d mind paying for that anyway, what with the lovely way it tears Sleuth’s knees all to hell. Today, it’s just one knee, though, which gets eaten up by the nap of the carpet when Sleuth leverages his weight on it to throw Slick off of him.

They actually make it to the bedroom this time.

And onto the bed.

“What a show of self-control,” Sleuth jokes.

Slick bites his mouth to shut him up, but there’s some truth to that. They didn’t make it past the door the first time in this place. The door hadn’t even shut before Slick had slammed him up against it, teeth at his throat scraping fabric and flesh.

The chance for privacy got to them both. He’d never Sleuth moan more than that before. He got used to it, though. There were no neighbors to be disturbed by yelps of pain or shouted curses, or the groans of pleasure in between. If things go according to plan, there will be a lot of noise. Even if they don’t — because things rarely do for either of them — there is already a lot of noise.

Slick digs his nails into the skin of Sleuth’s arms until there’s blood. There’s biting back and forth, teeth into each other’s skin, but only enough to leave bruises that won’t show up until tomorrow.

The bed sheets are black, with the highest recommended thread count. Not that Slick would go looking for that kind of bullshit, but he asked about it. Then just lifted a set from one of Droog’s places. The bed frame is built just high enough for him to bend someone over it — and leave Sleuth’s knees aching when he does the same. But with elbows and fists pressed sharp ribs and stomachs, they actually end up in bed. It’s a fucking feat.

Though they haven’t managed to undress each other completely, so maybe it’s not quite a victory. Or at least, not a flawless one. But what is? They’re both hard and in bed and the taste of Sleuth’s blood is on Slick’s tongue when he licks his lips. Tastes close enough.

A shirt, three shoes, a pair of pants, a jacket, none of them matching, are scattered in other rooms. The only things they treat with any kind of respect are each other’s hats. Of course.

They strip what’s left off each other and nearly go crashing out of bed because, the way Slick sees it, Sleuth won’t fucking keep still and just let him do what he’s going to fucking do already. Which, at the moment, means holding him down by the hips and pausing just to laugh at the pattern on his boxers.

Sleuth hits him for that, not that it stops or even discourages the laughter. Maybe it even makes it peak, but then there are hands on Slick’s naked hips in a way that threatens elastic and fragile seams, a way that will probably leave a mark. He’s too busy then to laugh. Sleuth pulls him on top of him and as Slick scrapes his teeth over the hollow of his throat he says something about this being just where Sleuth belongs. The answer to that is a growled “Fuck you” before he sinks his teeth in.

With both hands and a leg that twists around Slick’s, they wind up in the reverse position for a brief moment. It’s a surprise.

There’s a stunned moment while Slick’s on his back cursing and the skin on Sleuth’s shoulder is bleeding freely. His nose has finally stopped bleeding so, of course, getting it to bleed again is the best way to distract him.

“Hold still.”

The sheets tear easily. It’s nothing, really, but it’ll keep Sleuth’s hands busy for a minute. The interlacing of spades punched into dark metal makes such a great headboard. Aesthetic, but so goddamn useful. Once he’s got everything he needs, Slick takes a moment to appreciate the sight of Sleuth bloodied and sneering up at him. He gets his hands free, of course. It’s only cloth and a couple hasty knots.

Freeing himself, Sleuth hits hard enough to leave Slick breathless with this full-body impact and a kiss that’s absolutely mauling. The usual tastes of liquor, coffee, and cigarettes are all washed away in spit and blood. Slick shoves him back down on the bed by the throat, but Sleuth’s hands tearing at his hair bring him down too. They’re pressed tight against each other.

“We’ve made it this far,” Slick says when he can keep himself from biting at Sleuth’s tongue. “Why don’t you make it special for me?”

He freezes up.

“What do you mean?”

And Slick glares right into that stupid, nervous look on Sleuth’s face.

“For fuck’s sake, how dumb are you?” he answers.

He gets it though when Slick grabs him by the wrist and pulls his hand down, nails digging in. His hands over Sleuth’s making him touch him how he wants it.

This takes lube and a bed and effort and patience. So, yeah, it’s special. Usually they keep to hands and mouths and things that go fast, hard, violent. Which this will be too, if they can wait out all the effort.

But it takes Sleuth’s fingers and then Slick’s too, while he’s saying, “Fuck, can’t you go any faster?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Sleuth answers.

Slick snarls at that, his face twisted up in frustration. It takes an intimate knowledge of his moods to tell pain from anger from pleasure and no one really knows him well enough to say for sure what this is, but it feels like impatience to him.

“Fuck you.”

“Not on purpose, anyway,” he says, his voice wet between panting breaths.

Slick likes that he’s got a little more patience, but not much more. They both have their fingers inside him and when Slick says, “Come on, just fuck me already.”

He pushes himself down and digs his teeth in hard against the softness of Sleuth’s flesh because whatever sound he makes then needs to be drowned in the taste of salt and blood.

Eyes wide, mouth bloodied, and body shaking with tension, it’s already not enough just to feel this. He moves, first grinding and then leaning up, bracing one arm on the headboard and the other on Sleuth’s throat. Slick gets off on the way Sleuth holds his wrist with one hand — so Slick can’t choke him unconscious — and jerks him off with the other hand. If he could spare the breath, he’d laugh.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, you like that don’t you?” Thumb shifting to dig into the softness at the hollow of Sleuth’s throat, below his Adam’s apple where the trachea is most vulnerable, Slick thinks about how stabbing someone there can cause them to drown in their own blood and has to bite his tongue — a sharp pain and the taste of copper — to try to stifle the sick sound that bubbles out of his chest.

There’s pain and there’s pleasure in this and he gets off on both, but apparently Sleuth doesn’t like the erratic pace Slick sets quite as much as he does. Just as Slick has his head thrown back and his eyes shut there’s a fist snapping him in the elbow and over they go.

Sleuth looms over him. He can’t help howling because the angle is too different and he’s not pinned, but Slick can’t move like he wants to. His nails dig into Sleuth’s back and drag their way up.

“Fuck you! Get off me! Shit you suck at this! Fuck me harder, you piece of shit! Fuck me! That’s not even hard! Come on! Fuck me, bitch!”

Blood is hot and wet under Slick’s fingernails. He hears this choked off sound of pain and rocks up into it. Sleuth can try to get him pinned to the mattress, but he’ll never make him to stop fighting it. Even when his vision goes red and his whole body feels so much at once that he can’t tell if he’s biting down on Sleuth’s lips or his own, the instinct to fight runs deeper than anything in Slick.

The pain and pleasure of Sleuth’s teeth closing on his earlobe are the same thing and whatever words that went with the bite are gone. His throws his head back, body wanting to arch out and then inward. Teeth dig into something, probably Sleuth, and he won’t know for a minute at least because he’s not going to open his eyes for at least that long.

When Slick does bother to open his eyes, he sees it was Sleuth because he’s sitting on the corner of the bed dabbing at his shoulder with a tissue.

“I don’t know if I want a cigarette or a shower,” he says.

Sweat and motion have kept all their small wounds from closing and red drips down further than it would along damp skin. A shower is completely out of the question. It would wash all that away, so Slick grabs a pack of cigarettes from the bedside and throws his lighter at Sleuth’s head.

“Hey, you can’t go out like that,” Sleuth protests. He pulls on boxers with one hand and tosses the other pair to Slick. Misses, of course, because he’s not that graceful even when he’s not trying to do two things at once.

Slick laughs at the way Sleuth stumbles on his way out to the balcony, even though his knees are a little shaky. Maybe because his knees are a little shaky, actually, and that makes it seem a little more fair that Sleuth should be the one to almost fall over just trying to get into his boxers.

Actually, he realizes only after a couple drags on a cigarette, those aren’t Sleuth’s boxers. The ones Slick’s wearing are too loose, and they don’t have the familiar tear that Slick is seeking with his thumb. Well, it hardly fucking matters does it?

Blood drips from his earlobe and starts to trickle in a cool path down the side of his neck while they stand out on the balcony that’s only just big enough for both of them. Slick watches Sleuth and pretends to look at the city below. Sleuth, he notices, is doing exactly the same.


End file.
